


Venatori

by tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Alternate Universe - Demons, M/M, Urban Fantasy, demon!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Tony is perfectly content with his life as a Venatori, one of the famed witch and demon hunters, tasked with keeping mortals safe from the forces of darkness. He's pretty good at it, too.Right up until someone latches his soul with a demon--Great.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 69
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will post one chapter per month until complete. Tags will be added as needed.

Tony Stark looked up at the building; an abandoned warehouse on the docks. Typical. Bad guys, and particularly the kind of scum who made up the ranks of Warlocks and Dark Priests, tended to lack imagination. Warehouses, abandoned mansions, bookstores, cemeteries.

Well, some of them did. The guy who ran his cult circle out of a half dozen mobile homes; he’d been imaginative.

All the signs were there; the boarded up windows that had flickers of light flashing in the cracks. The sigil written in dried pig’s blood over the door. 

The imps guarding the rooftop were a bit of a clue as well. Blue-Eyed Imps. Watchers. They weren’t much for fighting, although their bite would make a man blind, and they could see for a thousand yards in any direction. Their cries would echo in the ears of their summoner, who was probably inside the warehouse, and who would set the strength of their coven on any intruder.

Tony tucked the spyglass away and sighed.

Breaking into the building would be difficult; he’d need to dodge the imps. He could see two of them, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more, deal with whatever security forces were inside, plus at least one summoner.

There were at least a half dozen people missing -- not just people. Children -- from the surrounding blocks. Mostly homeless and outcast; the sort that wouldn’t be missed, or looked for by police.

_That’s why you exist_ , Tony reminded himself.

“Jarvis? You up?”

“For you, sir? Always.”

Jarvis was a bound air spirit; quite different from demons and imps. Jarvis had made a deal about sixty years ago with Tony’s father, and was bound for one more generation in exchange for periodic favors. For an air spirit, three generations of Venatori was barely a blink in their existence. Jarvis was a treasure trove of information, and the perfect spy.

Who noticed the wind, after all?

“There’s imps all over the place,” Tony said. “I need a way in.”

“Wait here, sir,” Jarvis said.

The wind picked up, changed direction. All over the city, flags snapped to attention, wind chimes went crazy, singing their songs of protection. Jarvis let himself float into the air, a handful of fireflies that zipped yellow and blue and then faded.

If there was a way in, Jarvis would find it.

Tony preferred to do things the easy way. Some of his fellow Venatori were more of a smash and grab operation, but Tony liked to avoid a fight when he could.

Not that he _couldn’t_ fight; he was well trained in combat. And highly successful, although some would say it was because of his tools and cunning, rather than his muscles, which wasn’t a lie. Tony was the best at crafting; Venatori the world over came to him for his expertise in making blades and arrows, armor and protective charms.

And he didn’t like to kill demonkin if he didn’t have to. Despite their reputation, their terrifying appearances, and their lethal skills, demons didn’t ask to be summoned, to be bound to a Warlock and set to kill or destroy.

When Tony could reverse a summoning, send the demon home, he would. It wasn’t that they were evil any more than a fox was evil. In the right context. 

_Warlocks_ were the problem; summoners seeking power and subjugation. As always, the worst evil came from _people_ , not monsters.

Jarvis returned with a brush of air against Tony’s neck that made him shiver. “Anything?”

“There’s a basement entrance, sir,” Jarvis said. “Guarded at one end by a hired security who is more interested in watching football than the door. You can easily dispatch him.”

“Sounds good. It’s time to rock, J,” Tony said, grabbing his pack, doing what Steve Rogers jokingly referred to as Tony’s Sign of the Cross. Bracers, pendant, knife and belt.

The bracers deflected demonic energy, the pendant gave him enhanced speed and dexterity, the belt provided limited flight skills -- jumping with style -- and the knife was crafted to penetrate unholy defenses.

In the pack, Tony carried healing potions, packets filled with enchanted herbs, stunner charms, and other necessities. Chalk, rope, wax seals. Lockpicks. 

“And roll, sir,” Jarvis said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Really, sir, predictability at your age--”

Tony didn’t wait to see what scold the air spirit was going to bring down on his head. He’d heard all of Jarvis’s fussing for years. He was off and running, using his boots to leap over obstacles and the pendant glowed soft blue as he leaned on the added agility. “Parkour,” he said, and then dropped neatly behind the security guard. One finger touched to a patch of bare skin -- in this case on the man’s neck -- and whispered words “ _dormire adesso_ ,” and the man slumped to the ground.

It didn’t really matter what the word was. Tony used a combination of words his Italian mother had taught him and that he barely remembered, Latin, Tolkien’s elvish -- Sindarin, not Telerin -- and Klingon. Magic and the drawing of it, depended on insulating the mind from its power. Like wrapping rubber around a screwdriver grip. 

If Tony made a mistake, or even got blocked at the wrong time, the magic would deflect right up the words that made up his thoughts and self, and in all likelihood, melt his brain right out of his ears. Not a pleasant thought. So Venatori who used magic -- and not all of them did, there was a whole coven of Venatori who had decided that magic was part of the problem -- used a personal conglomeration of words that they could easily remember in order to direct the magical energies.

Sleep spell. One of the most underrated beginning level spells in Dungeons & Dragons, and still one of the more effective methods of avoiding getting one’s ass royally shot up.

Tony dragged the guard under his desk, making sure he couldn’t be seen. There wasn’t time -- or need, really -- to put up an illusion spell in the guard’s place. They were easily broken, too, unless Tony was concentrating entirely on the illusion.

“You left a foot sticking out, sir,” Jarvis chided.

Tony tidied up and turned his attention to the door. “Where is Natasha when I need her?”

“Last I was informed, she and Venator Barton were in Budapest, sir. Shall I arrange to have her recalled?”

“Smart ass,” Tony said. “She’s just better at the door thing than I am.”

“Well, I suggest you hurry it up with the door thing. That sleep spell won’t last more than another twenty minutes.”

“Stop rushing me,” Tony complained, getting the pick inserted. He wasn’t good with lockpicks, it took him a few minutes, but he was even less good with small, delicate spells. Trying to unlock the door with magic would likely result in an explosion and shrapnel the size of toothpicks all over the place. Not good for keeping people from knowing he was coming.

Finally the door gave way to his inexpert probing and he slid into the cellar entrance. “You’re sure it’s safe down here?”

“Safety is overrated,” Jarvis said. “Or so you keep telling me, sir.”

“Is there anyone who is coming, or paying attention,” Tony hissed, “or are you trying to break out of your contract early?”

“Never, sir,” Jarvis said. “The remaining humans in the building are paying attention to the summoning. There are two imps, but they’re on the far stairs. You should be clear.”

Tony pulled the door almost all the way shut, secured the latch with a piece of tape to keep it from locking behind him, and then ventured down the stairs. It was as black as the inside of his boot, aside from the faintest light coming from Jarvis’s form. “Damp down, would ya?” Jarvis ruffled his hair like a chilly ghost touch and slithered down the back of Tony’s shirt. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was somehow comforting.

Which, of course, meant that Tony couldn’t see either. A few murmured words and his eyes ached as they changed, going slitted. Cats could see in almost total darkness, and for the price of a headache later, so could Tony.

Everything went shades of blue as his pupils opened wide. Stairs, and a long hallway. Typical and unimaginative.

He crept along. It was cold down here, colder than the air above, and the walls were glistening with moisture and clumps of slimy mold.

Also not very original.

“Just once, I’d like the bad guy’s hideout to be somewhere nice and sunny, not Skullcrusher Mountain or the depths of the mines of Moria. Seriously, why are bad guys allergic to sunlight?”

“Well, in this case, sir, I imagine it’s because demons don’t react well to light at all.”

“Always got an answer for me, don’t you?”

“That is what you pay me for, sir.”

“Do I pay you?” Tony wondered, and then there was a sound coming from ahead of them, so he stopped talking, agonizing as that was. He preferred a straight up fight to all this sneaking around. Sneaking interfered with Tony’s ability to make smart-assed commentary. 

Natasha was good at sneaking. Excellent, really. Barton, too. There was no reason why he had to have this particular mission. Except of course, that this mission didn’t exist, per se. Tony’d gotten word from one of his informants, and there hadn’t been enough time to report back to the coven.

Chanting, deep and rhythmic, echoed down the hall. Flicks of light and heat passed Tony’s position. Sulphur and brimstone fouled the air.

The crevasse between their world and the demons was opening up. The heat grew immense, until Tony was sweating, panting for breath.

He had to time it just right; if the crevasse wasn’t complete before Tony threw down with the main warlock, there might be a backlash of magical energy, a fissure, letting through uncontrolled demons. That would be even worse than whatever this guy was up to.

Probably.

But if the demon had already come through--

Well… Tony peeked around the corner trying to see where they were in the ceremony. He didn’t know what language they were using. Harsh and full of reverberations. Rolling the Rs right down the hill.

Which didn’t help for judging the completion of the summoning.

The ground shook under them, a split zagging up through the center of the room.

Fuck a duck. 

“That’s just about enough of that,” Tony said, stepping into the room. He had his silver knife in hand, and -- well, Warlocks were tough. He flicked it, flipping the blade end over end. It cut cleanly through the Warlock’s wards and shields and pinned the man’s hand to the wall. Nicely done, Stark.

Until the warlock raised his head. And the rest of his chanters raised theirs. They were all the same, the same face, the same man.

An illusion.

It melted around Tony, leaving him standing--

Inside the summoning circle.

And the crack between worlds opened.

“Shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that Bucky realized, aside from that it was cold, because it was always loving cold topside, was that he was annoyed.

He hadn’t yet determined the nature of the annoyance. His brain often worked at strange paces when he was dealing with being summoned topside. Below, things were warm and comfortable and normal. In the human world, well, there were _complications_.

It might have been just that he was summoned. It had been quite a long time since he was summoned. Taking the name that he did, it was less likely that he’d _get_ summoned.

What kind of brilliant expert human would summon a demon named _Bucky_ than one with a complicated tongue twister of a name, like _Zagdromoth the Iniquitous_ or something? Only the younger demons, desperate to gain status, bothered to keep ridiculous labels. The humans who had summoned Zagdromoth would be in for a shock and a half if they realized his real name was Brock.

Bucky had given up all his labels, ranks, and appellations long ago. He was tired of being called up for damnations and destruction. It was boring. 

Any warlock worth his salt would eventually figure out that the most powerful and puissant demons were the ones who called themselves simple names. Even Lucifer Morningstar had given it all up and was known to those who were his friends and advisors simply as Ol' Scratch. That had been the thought, and giving up one’s name was a sign of honor among demons. And-- well, so far there hadn’t been any smart warlocks.

Maybe it was because the young demons were too exhausting, and the warlocks tended to get themselves eaten in the end anyway.

Bucky didn’t know, he didn’t bother to follow topside politics that much.

But he was topside now, and damned annoyed by it.

There was a powered circle on the floor, perfect, and containing. Without help, he was stuck. Which generally meant that he was going to have to bargain for his freedom with whatever magnificent blossom had summoned him in the first place.

 _Make me rich and famous and powerful and strike down my enemies_. Blah blah fishcakes.

And of course, all the fawning and subservience that went with it. Ug. It was almost enough to make a demon bless his own existence.

Bucky dug around in his inventory of tricks and pulled out his unholy demon voice. “ _How can I serve you, my master_?”

He hadn’t even bothered to look at his master. Probably all dressed in black with pointy stupid hats and sticks that did nothing, and--

“Uh. I don’t-- I didn’t--”

What, did this guy think it wouldn’t work? Summoning a demon wasn’t all that hard, really, if you had its name. 

“First time summoning a demon?” Bucky looked up to give the guy his best, toothy grin.

“I have never summoned a demon,” the man said, and the more Bucky looked at him, the less like a typical Warlock he seemed.

Bucky looked around the room; filthy, abandoned warehouse or a deconsecrated church. Those seemed to be back in fashion, apparently. But there wasn’t another soul in the area, aside from a family of mice nesting in the walls, and they probably hadn’t summoned him. “So how did I get here?”

“Illusion casting,” the man said. “Maybe something on a timed remote. Projection, combined with some sort of recording device.”

“Was that even human speech, or are you just making words up?”

The man flashed him something of a smile, all teeth and no humor behind it. “I think the idea was to get me in trouble.”

“What, am I supposed to eat you now?” Bucky poked tentatively at the circle’s spellwork. It was tight, competent. He wasn’t getting out that way. 

“Do you do that?” the man wondered, and his hand dropped to a satchel on his hip. Weapons, including holy water and other things that Bucky wasn’t particularly fond of.

“It’s a theory. I _could_. You humans are made of meat, just like any other animal.” The man had the balls to look affronted. “I’m not particularly hungry right now and I have other things on my mind rather than trying a new delicacy, however. Can _you_ get out of this?”

“Uh, maybe,” the man said. He was still crouching, hand on his weapon. 

“Look, I’m not a blessed dinosaur, I’m not going to jump on you as soon as you move. I’ve known you were there since I got here, so if I was going to kill you, I’d have done it already. What I want to know is-- is this circle a summoning circle, or a shield, or some sort of combination spell I haven’t seen before. If you can get out, or if it just holds demonic energy _in_.”

“Won’t that just let me out?”

“Yes,” Bucky said. “But with no summoner here, I can just wait for a while. Usually sunrise, but if it’s really powerful, the next full moon will wipe it out. Either way--”

The man got to his feet, gingerly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. He took a step backward, and another step.

There was a sizzle and a crackle, and the man ended up back on his knees, pitching forward and just barely avoiding cracking his forehead on the stone floor.

“Well, that answers that much,” Bucky said. “So, what time is it, and when’s the next full moon?”

“It’s about three in the morning,” a glowing golden sylph volunteered from outside the circle. “And the next full moon is in twenty five days. Mr. Stark will not, in fact, last that long, which is problematic.”

Bucky froze. “What is _that_?”

The man -- Mr. Stark, apparently -- scoffed. “You’re the demon, and you’re offended by the existence of an air spirit?”

Bucky turned a red-eyed glare at Stark. “That’s no mere spirit--”

“What sir means to say,” the sylph said -- and make no mistake, that creature was powerful. Quite possibly more powerful than Stark realized. “--is that I am bound to serve him and his family line for one more generation, and if he should die without producing an heir, I would be stuck here, until that obligation was met. Not a fate anyone desires. Or deserves.”

No, probably not. Stuck spirits were hostile creatures, to both topside and below dwellers.

“Do you have a suggestion, J?”

“Cover your head, sir,” Jarvis said, and then the sylphen creature reached out to call its native element to it.

“Oh, _daisies_!” Bucky said, and because he wasn’t sure what the sylph would do, if Bucky allowed its caretaker to die, he threw himself over the human, protecting him.

“Hey--”

“Hold still, bless you, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The wind howled like a demon prince, and the building was shaking. Dust rose and blew through the room, thick and choking.

“I thought you were supposed to be the damned--” the man said, and then he started to cough, spluttering on the dust and dirt. A huge chunk of cheap plaster came flying off the wall and smashed into the summoning circle.

Stark shut his mouth and his eyes and curled even closer to Bucky. Bucky’d never been that close to a human before, never touched one that he wasn’t prepared to kill, had never--

The human wiggled, then paused. “Is that--”

“Do I have to _make you_ shut up?”

Bucky found himself looking down into a pair of curious, confused brown eyes, watering from the dust, but wide and somehow-- _alluring_. Like the man was daring him and urging him on, and calling him all at the same time. 

Bucky was no stranger to human’s procreation; there were those summoners who called a demon either for that sort of service, or to punish someone, or in the hopes of making a half-demon child. But he’d never done it with a human because the human-- wanted it. And especially not because _Bucky_ wanted it. It was always, always an order. A chore. Just another service.

Stark wet his lips, and then Bucky decided to go ahead and shut him up. Maybe it would keep Stark from being so blessedly _annoying_.

Making love with a demon, from everything Bucky had been told about it, from his various lovers, was supposed to be the most sublimely wicked thing that ever happened to a human. Intenseness and devotion and tenderness, and just the right spark of pain, the right feelings of shame, that squirmy, _oh, I like this and I really shouldn’t_ to keep things interesting.

For Bucky, it had generally been a pleasant pressure against parts of his anatomy that he didn’t think about most of the time unless he was using them to lure some unsuspecting virgin into parting with a social construct so she (or he) could feel terribly guilty about it later. 

He didn’t usually have sex, or even kiss someone, just because he wanted to. There was always an order or an ulterior motive. Kissing was like chocolate. Or money. Or power. A means to the end; the end being _temptation_.

As a demon, Bucky wasn’t too familiar with the idea of temptation from a personal perspective. He didn’t _need_ anything, he didn’t generally _want_ anything (aside from to be left alone), and there was almost nothing anyone could offer him that would tempt him.

Well, maybe vanilla ice cream. 

Literally, no one, in the history of asking demons for bargains, would risk their soul, or sell their soul, for vanilla ice cream. Which was so stupid, because vanilla was not basic. It was hard to grow, difficult to cure, and formed the base of nearly every other flavor on the planet.

Vanilla was, in fact, divine.

And Bucky had never had any, because no mortal would ever ask for the stuff. They wouldn’t want to waste their wishes.

And now, he had something else to add to his list of demonically tempting items.

Kissing Tony Stark.

His mouth was the softest, most perfect thing Bucky had ever touched in his entire existence. He could do this for hours, days-- eternity.

Stark tasted like wildflowers in the rain. His arms were tight around Bucky’s shoulders and the fingers of one hand threaded into Bucky’s hair, holding on.

As if Stark also wanted this never to stop.

It was a heady, crazy, wonderful feeling. Right.

In a way that nothing, ever, should be _right_ for a demon.

As much shock as the fact that the windquake stopped that caused Bucky to pull back with a gasp.

Stark lay there for a moment, sprawled and beautiful and debauched in front of him.

Something was very, _very_ wrong. He felt trapped in a way that went beyond the circle. _Bound_ , somehow, by something stronger than his word.

“I believe that Mr. Stark will now be able to leave the circle,” the sylph, Jarvis, announced. 

Bucky was just the tiniest bit faster to understand all the implications of that statement. Jarvis had damaged the circle enough that mortal energy could flow through. Stark could leave. Which meant Bucky-- could not.

Bucky felt himself shifting, claws extending, teeth growing sharp, canines powerful. Horns that were normally mere bumps on his forehead pushed out. His jaw lengthened a little to hold predator’s teeth. “What now, Stark?” Bucky demanded. “You going to leave me in here? Bring in the priests to destroy me?”

Stark was smart, he didn’t scramble backward. There was no way he could leave the circle before Bucky could catch him. 

Bucky could wait inside the circle for it to dissipate. The question was, would Stark let him?

“It wasn’t my plan, no,” Stark said. He sat up, cross-legged. Not looking at all like he was preparing to flee. Bucky found himself relaxing, a little. His tail thumped against the floor a few times. That thing had a mind of its own sometimes. “Uff, what did you do that for?”

“Kiss you? It seemed the fastest way to get you to shut up,” Bucky said.

“A shut up kiss? Huh, I don’t know that anyone’s ever tried that before. Effective. I should suggest it to--”

Bucky found himself snarling.

“Woah, woah, big guy, come on,” Stark said. “I mean, it’s cute that you want to take me to prom and all, but really, sit down, chill--”

Stark was _his_ , Stark belonged to Bucky, and no one else-- he was still snarling, still scraping his claws against the stone floor, sparks flying up from his fingertips.

Stark pulled out a crystal from his pocket and peered at Bucky through it. “Oh. Oh crap. You’re _bound_. Did-- did you do this?”

Bucky shook his head.

“I believe it was the circle, sir,” the sylph said. It couldn’t come into the circle, and Bucky couldn’t leave. “Once the demon touched you without hostile intent, the rest of the spell closed. Congratulations sir, you’re now a warlock.”

“Not helping, Jay,” Stark complained.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Jarvis said. “Without being witness to these events, even I would say you summoned him.”

“What’s the contract terms?” Stark asked. “We didn’t--”

“No terms.”

Bucky fell onto his ass inside the circle. “The rest of your life.” He was bound to serve -- a mortal -- for the rest of the mortal’s life. No deal. No contract, no exceptions.

_God love it._


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir, if I might--”

“I suppose you will whether I let you or not,” Tony grumbled. He was sitting just outside the summoning circle, out of the range of certain grabby, somewhat sexy (okay, very sexy, but he wasn’t going to admit that outloud) demons.

The demon, on the other hand, was pacing inside the circle. 

As far as Tony could tell, there weren’t a hell of a lot of choices.

He could open the circle -- mortal blood would wash away the demon containing energy -- and deal with having a demon servant for the rest of his life. Which had all sorts of drawbacks, such as demon-summoning was very illegal, and having to deal with the demon.

Or he could walk away, leaving the circle unbroken. It probably wouldn’t hurt the demon to stay in the circle for a few months, or even years. He’d be bored, but he wouldn’t starve to death or anything. And just wait. Hope that Tony died before someone else found him.

Which--

Yeah, the likelihood of that happening was about zero.

Or he could call in the rest of the Venatori and banish the demon. Except that most of the demon hunters weren’t exactly shy when it came to killing. Somehow it didn’t seem fair to just-- well, to be honest, none of it was fair.

“As there are several souls headed this way,” Jarvis interrupted. “You might want to consider pondering your options _somewhere else_.”

“Right,” Tony said. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do--” He was already digging out his athame, and an alcohol wipe because infections were still nasty. “You’re going to come with me while I figure out what the hell is going on.”

The demon spread his hands, fingernails gleaming. “As you say, boss.”

“Just Tony, please,” Tony said. The athama’s blade was very sharp, which was good. He took a breath, because it never got any easier, and poked himself with the knife somewhat behind his ear. Scalp wounds bleed like crazy, even when they were superficial. And once bandaged, he wasn’t likely to reopen it by using his hands.

He never did understand the people who did all the palm cutting. Like, that shit hurt, and it got infected really easily. 

A few moments of bleeding and he had enough to wipe out a section of the summoning circle to let the demon out. Tony pressed a clean handkerchief to the wound -- his mother had always told him a proper gentleman carried many spare hankies, and Tony always found a use for them, so yay, Maria -- and stood up to let the demon out.

“Here,” the demon said, holding out his hand for the hanky. “Let me do that.”

“Why?”

“Because demons can heal, and I’m supposed to serve you. Might as well let me do my job rather than leave a blood trail that anyone can follow.”

He had a point. Tony shrugged and tipped his head. 

The demon’s hands went to Tony’s shoulders and Tony got pulled in like the demon intended to hug it out. Instead, a puff of hot breath wafted over Tony’s skin, and-- it burned for just an instant. Jesus Fuck, that hurt, and then… it didn’t. 

Tentatively, Tony touched the spot and his fingers came away clean. “That’s an impressive skill.”

“It hurts worse the more serious the injury,” the demon said. “Like unholy burning, I’m told. But if you can endure the pain, I can heal almost anything. Really bad injuries, the pain itself can kill you.”

“Right,” Tony said. “No getting my leg chopped off or something. Got it. Are you-- we can go now?”

The demon shook his head back and a pair of black, batlike wings sprouted over his shoulders. “Where do you want to go, boss?”

“Yikes, okay, I just want to say yikes here, for the record. That is seriously creepy. Can you-- carry a passenger?”

The demon just glared at him. 

“Sure, okay, um, Stark Mansion, downtown. Do you need better directions than that?” Tony didn’t actually live at his father’s old mansion; the place had been shut up for years. While it was probably on the list of places people would look for him eventually, it wouldn’t come to anyone’s mind immediately, and it would give them some breathing space.

“I can make it,” the demon said. “Don’t scream.”

Tony wasn’t about to scream; he’d always dreamed of flying, and this was-- incredible.

Despite the fact that the demon was, well, demonic, Tony didn’t feel the least bit unsafe. Like being on a well-oiled rollercoaster.

He didn’t know if they could be seen from the ground, or if they showed up on radar or anything, but it didn’t seem like a good time to ask about logging a flight plan.

Tony concentrated on breathing, and a few minutes later, the demon dropped them on the roof of the Stark Mansion.

“Nice,” Tony said. “Thank you-- uh… what’s your-- I mean, are you allowed to tell me your name?”

“I already serve you,” the demon said. “There’s nothing else you can do with my name.”

“Right-- so, what do I call you?”

“Bucky.”

Tony blinked. “Bucky? Bucky? Really? I mean, yeah, just checking to make sure I had the pronunciation right. Bucky. A demon named Bucky. That’s something you don’t hear every day.”

“Yes, I do,” Bucky said, blinking at Tony like he didn’t get the joke. Well, maybe he didn’t.

* * *

The Stark Mansion was dark and dreary; not something Bucky expected from a rich human’s dwelling. The furniture -- what was left of it -- was covered with white dust cloths and there was a sense of abandonment that hung in the air.

Free from the restraint of his power inside the circle, demonic senses told Bucky there had only been five souls in the building in the last annum, four who came regularly. Hired helpers, to clean and dust, to make sure the building hadn’t crumbled, or to maintain repairs if needed. Working stiffs, who seemed unusually happy. Their touch lingered in places. They were happy with their jobs, happy with their lives. Content. Bucky could have snuggled into any one of the footprints left by these people and just enjoyed it.

There were other places, other moods. Other souls.

One who hadn’t been here in quite some time, who left spurts of fear, disappointment, anger. Resentment. Greed. Ego. Restlessness. Drive.

Another shadow, this one also gone. Loving, but distant. Enduring, but quiet. Passion, long since cooled. Acceptance and a sense of futility. 

But they were long since gone.

The last one, cold and dark and deep. Plotting. Calculating. Like a spider. Or not like a spider at all, who only hunted when hungry, and so was no more cruel than most living things, but like a scorpion, who would sting and sting even to their own detriment. There was blood on those hands, and an insatiable hunger.

Of course, hints of Tony were there, too. Eager to please, scared, lonely. Not the man that Bucky knew, but what remained of the boy.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a feel for the history of the house,” Bucky said, because he couldn’t lie, not to his bonded.

“Yeah? Anything interesting?”

 _Interesting_ was a conundrum; a matter of opinion. Bucky decided that it was his opinion that mattered to answer the question. “Where do you get your housekeeping staff?” Bucky asked. “I’ve sensed hundreds of them over the years in other places; resignation, boredom, tediousness. Yours are _happy_.” That was interesting. Murder was not interesting. Murder was dull, insipid. It was the crime as old as humanity.

“Oh, we run -- Stark Industries, I mean -- a halfway house, kind of a charity thing, to get homeless people off the streets, especially sex workers. Not that there’s anything wrong with sex workers, if that’s what you really want to do, but if not, we have a few homes, and job training. But for people who don’t need job training, or who need to stay out of the public eye, this is a good place for them to earn money, to save up for going somewhere else. Six weeks working here, longer if they want to stay, and most people can afford a bus ticket and a deposit on a new apartment, for a new life. This place sucked for me as a kid, it might as well give someone else hope and happiness.”

Bucky nodded. He’d keep an eye out for the soul with murder and hatred hanging around it like a cloud. They might have ill-intent toward one of the women. Or, perhaps, Tony himself, for letting a prize get beyond their grasp. It still wasn’t _interesting_ , and Bucky kept it to himself.

“Right, okay,” Tony said, rubbing his hands together like he’d gotten his fingers dirty somehow. “So -- now that we’ve got a little breathing room -- how do we get out of this mess?”

Bucky scoffed, offended. He wasn’t a _mess_. He was a well respected demon who’d been out of the game for a while. “That depends what your end-goal is, Master,” Bucky said.

“Look, no, just, can we not with that?”

“It doesn’t change what it is, no matter what you call it,” Bucky said. “I’m bound to your will.”

“So, I could just tell you to go home?”

“Yes.” In a manner of speaking. He would be home, in Hel, but it wouldn’t break the bond, and he would come whenever Tony called upon him. And if the bond was specifically powerful, Bucky might not, in fact, be able to get too far. He’d come whenever he was needed, not merely commanded. “With some caveats.”

“Let’s hear them.”

Bucky explained about the link, to the best of his ability.

“And I’m afraid, sir, that the bond will show up to any with the ability to see it,” Jarvis said, as if apologizing. “A brilliant red thread going straight to the heart of the demon’s home.”

“Which will attract imps, gargoyles, homunculi, and other pests from my side of the wall,” Bucky said. “Within a month, you’d be infested, and without careful attention, probably die in your sleep as half the feeders in my area would be eating your anima. Which would have the advantage of severing the link, but-- I don’t think it’s a price you want to pay.”

“No, that’s not ideal,” Tony said. “There’s no way for me to sever this link?”

“Your death, my death, or a miracle.”

“I didn’t think demons could die,” Tony said. “Nevermind, not a good solution either. Go over that last one.”

“An arch-angel, or one of their priests, perhaps, could break it,” Bucky said. “Perhaps. It’s hard to say. Angels aren’t remarkably known to be cooperative.”

“Their priests even less so,” Tony said. “I’ve had a few run-ins with the clergy.”

“You might also consult with the warlock who cast the spell originally,” Jarvis suggested. “Flaws might be discovered in the design, and then exploited.”

“Problems with that?” Tony glanced at Bucky.

“The warlock is very unlikely to be cooperative,” Bucky said. Even less so than the clergy, more than likely. 

“True,” Tony said. “But we probably want to know who he is, before he gets around to showing his hand. We need to know who he is, what he wants, and how he did this.”

We. What a strange little word. “We?” Bucky asked, because he didn’t understand. “What we? You and your sylph?”

“We-- you and me,” Tony reiterated. “And Jarvis. He’s remarkably useful, if you can get around his sarcasm.”

“It fits in the spaces around Mr. Stark’s ego,” Jarvis put in, helpfully.

Bucky shook his head. He’d never been part of anyone’s _we_ before. And he wasn’t sure how far to trust it. It didn’t matter, in the end. Not really. He was bound to Tony’s will. But it was tempting to hope for something more. Something other.

Something.

We.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to add that this fic is utterly unbeta-read, so please, if you see typos or weirdness, just let me know.


End file.
